


Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams

by temperamental_mistress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, July Revolution, Logic and Philosophy Week, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 22:30:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12375465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: They had promised to stay near to each other, hadn’t they? He would never leave his friend behind at a time like this, and knew Combeferre was of a similar mind. The only thing that would stop either of them from following the other would be injury or...





	Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams

The world spun every time Enjolras tried to lift his head. His clothes, soaked in sweat from the oppressive heat, stuck to his skin and smothered him. His vision was blurry around the edges, colors not quite the right shades. Had he struck his head on the cobbles when he’d fallen? _Had_ he fallen? He couldn’t quite remember.

His ears rang, like he’d been too close to an explosion. _Like the time you sat too close to the organ during mass_ , his mind supplied, not-so-helpfully. The explosion seemed more likely, given the crack of gunfire and the distant screams filtering through the persistent buzz of sound.

He lifted a hand to his face to try to rub some clarity into his eyes, but his fingers were sticky with half-dried blood. Was he bleeding? His head notwithstanding, nothing hurt enough to indicate that the blood was his. Or perhaps it was, and he was simply too dizzy to recognize the pain. It was difficult to focus on anything for long.

_Combeferre_ , he thought, in a rare moment of clarity. _I need to find Combeferre_.

He was certain the other man was here somewhere, wherever here was. The nearest buildings weren’t familiar to him, beyond a vague sense that he must be in Paris. He rolled over and tried to rise, but his body was heavy with exhaustion and his limbs too weak to support him for more than a moment. That small effort alone nearly made him lose consciousness. The temptation to give in to his body’s demand for rest, to lie down and sleep was almost overwhelming, but he couldn’t stay here. The people were rising, protesting against their Bourbon oppressors. Even if he could not join them, he had to move, lest he be trampled or arrested.

Gritting his teeth, Enjolras forced himself to stand, breathing heavily as he found his balance and surveyed his surroundings. The street was in a state of chaos, with smashed streetlamps and debris littering the ground as far as he could see. There were bodies amidst the rubble, some moving and crying out, others quiet and still. The men running past him did not stop to tend to the fallen, and their faces were foreign to him.

_But where is Combeferre?_ He was beginning to worry now. They had promised to stay near to each other, hadn’t they? He would never leave his friend behind at a time like this, and knew Combeferre was of a similar mind. The only thing that would stop either of them from following the other would be injury or...

He was on his knees again in an instant, scrambling to turn over the nearest body. Though the face was half covered with blood from a head wound, Enjolras knew it as well as his own. Combeferre was pale beneath the grime of the street. He meant to be gentle, but panic quickly overtook him as he shook the other man. He tried to scream, to cry out for help, but found he had no voice.

There was no sign of life.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras woke in a cold sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs. Everything was still and silent, a sudden absence of sound, but the noise of the street still echoed in his ears. He couldn’t breathe. The cold air was too dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He shivered, trying to reconcile the sudden chill in the air with the lingering memory of summer’s heat.

_Combeferre_. _Where is Combeferre_? He sat up so quickly that his head spun. There was no one else in the bed, the place beside him cold and empty. What little moonlight spilled in through the shutters revealed a dark stain on the pillow. Blood? Was he still dreaming? He fumbled at the night table, searching for a candle, but succeeded only in knocking over a half-read philosophy book and an empty cup.

The door creaked, and Enjolras turned with all the grace of a hunted animal. Combeferre stood in the doorway, the missing candle in one hand, the other pinching a stained handkerchief over his nose.

“Sorry,” he whispered through the linen square, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Combeferre stepped closer to set the candle down on the table. His expression changed swiftly from apologetic to concerned. “That same dream again?”

Enjolras couldn’t reply, his tongue still heavy from sleep, his pulse pounding with misplaced adrenaline. It was just a nosebleed, not a head wound. Combeferre _had_ been injured in 1830, but he’d only been unconscious for a few minutes. They had both walked away from the chaos of the July Revolution relatively unharmed.

Some of the tension drained from his body as Combeferre pressed a kiss to his forehead without a word. It was over. It had been a year and a half, but the memory was still as painful as it was clear. Combeferre was here, _alive_ , and all was quiet and still. The warm glow of the candlelight cast just enough light to show the color in his cheeks, the life in his eyes. Enjolras smiled instinctively as Combeferre ran a thumb across his cheek, wiping away the tears that had spilled over in his relief. They were alive and together and safe.

“There’s a few hours yet until dawn,” Combeferre whispered, kissing first the bridge of his nose, then the very tip. “You needn’t go back to sleep, but it will be warmer under the blankets.”

Despite Combeferre being the shorter of the pair, Enjolras soon found himself with his nose pressed under the other man’s chin, while skilled fingers sorted through the tangles in his hair. The chill in the room was quickly forgotten beneath the heavy weight of the wool blankets, and the steady warmth that Combeferre radiated.

Slowly, Enjolras felt the knot in his chest begin to unwind as Combeferre whispered about which bones could be found in the hand, a soothing litany of sound. He could have recited a list of unjust laws, and Enjolras would have felt equally comforted, calmed by the cadence of Combeferre’s voice, the consistent breath of warm air beside his ear that meant he was alive. By the time moonlight turned to the grey skies of early morning, and Combeferre’s words turned to murmured nonsense, Enjolras had fallen into the comfortable embrace of a dreamless sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hamlet (Act II, Scene II) - "O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams."


End file.
